


Upon the Well of Sorrows

by Airy (hn209486)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: DA:I - Spoilers for main quest, M/M, OC: Luthian, i like dorian angst way too much uh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 07:52:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3402743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hn209486/pseuds/Airy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Celebrations after the Well of Sorrows are not shared by all, and passion is not always the answer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Upon the Well of Sorrows

When Dorian found him, it was well into the eve, and the fire outside, where howling laughter and the Bull’s loud challenges had been ringing out now had gone silent, now burnt low.

The night had been filled with celebration. The cheers had been so loud that Lúthian had been sure that he would be left with ringing in his ears that would dull out the elven words that he could hear at the back of his mind. The songs had blissfully filled the night air, and the smell of mead and beer and ale and sweat had both been rank and refreshing. Lúthian wasn’t sure whether he’d call what had happened here a victory, but it was something similar. He could still taste the well on the back of his throat, and hear the enraged yell of Corypheus, the sound sending chills down his spine and leaving him in near panic. He was no brave man. He was no hero. He had ran, but even so they had… won?  
  
He still couldn’t call it a victory.  
  
The Bull surely did, however. Iron Bull’s yells were as raucous as ever, crying out about their accomplishments on the battlefield. His tankard swung and he roared for more barrels to be split. He would drink himself into a stupor at this point, and Lúthian could all but avoid his grasping, hungry hands at one point, ready to celebrate something else after the heat of the battle.  
  
Sera’s high pitched shrieks of excitement left the air electrified, and she at one point shoved something into the inquisitors hands that made his throat burn and the world spin. Cassandra laughed at that, and the sound was like bells, because anytime that Lúthian heard the harsh woman laugh, it was an undeniably shocking but also beautiful experience. The others—Cullen, Josephine, Blackwall, he could even be sure that he spotted Cole in the distance—also had joined the crowd of soldiers and healers and merchants, willing to enjoy the after battle, even as others attended to the wounds of the fallen. They would mourn, but for now they drank.  
  
It wasn’t right, however, and no matter how much the burning drink seared his throat, no matter how much his eyes watered and his hair laid slick against his forehead, causing the tattoo’s he so carefully drew on every morning to smear, he could not forget. He could not un-see the accusing glare of Dorian as he looked up from the well, chin damp and his eyes burning with _knowledge_ , swearing himself away to an elven god without a second thought. He couldn’t burn away the image of his dark haired lover slinking off with a drink in his hand, into Skyhold and not returning even as Bull roared after him. The inquisitors guilt was a sharp pain at the back of his mind—because what else could it be? He had betrayed the trust he had vowed to never break again. He had…  
  
The world spun more, and the night wore on.  
  
What would Malinche think? His strong sister—keeper of the clan. Sturdy on her feet even in illness, pushing for him to go in her stead to the meeting to reconcile peace between mages and Templars. She stood by him for everything, but would she stand by him for this? He had undeniably betrayed his wordless vows to her as well. He laughed to that, though the Bull laughed louder, assuming that it was Cullen’s rough joke that made the inquisitor tip his head back with mirth. Oh _yes._ Lúthian, always the one to be upset with. Always the disappointment. At one point, the drinks he took her bitter—his sister would never agree to him swearing himself away to a _god._  
  
There would be time for him to grovel for forgiveness, though.  
  
Lúthian had always found himself rather weak. Rather… selfish. Maybe it was because of his incompetence in magical training before discovering Knight enchantry, something Vivienne praised him at now, gripping his shoulder and yelling about his feats on the battlefield against Samson. Maybe it was the fact that his sister had always been help higher than him, always praised her excellence in the clan. Maybe it was because… no. Nothing of Dorian was at fault. It was that guilt that finally sent him to his quarters.  
  
The room was chilled. The fire had long since burned out. Papers and teacups were scattered across his cup. After hearing that tea chased away the ability to dream from Solas, the inquisitor had found himself drinking the substance more and more. After obtaining the anchor, his dreams had become all the more vivid. The nightmares particularly left him in a cold sweat. They depicted his sister finally succumbing to her blood illness. They depicted Corypheus taking Dorian by the throat and _crushing_ him. They depicted the sky turning inside out; consuming everything him, Cassandra, and the other advisors had worked for.  
  
They depicted the world pointing and laughing at him.  
  
Drunken as he was, his body buzzing like fire, he could not bring himself to pass out until long after the night had fallen silent. Even then, it was not in his bed, where the guilt of what he had done to Dorian felt raw, but in the armchair near his open deck. The cold night breeze felt relieving, and helped him relax somewhat.  
  
That was how he found him. A cold hand grasping his neck, and sloppy lips pressing against his, and Lúthian woke up with a jerk that nearly left him sprawling out his chair because the last thing his mind, dead to the world as it was, expected was for a knee to be between his legs and a mouth to be assaulting his. Even drunk, the inquisitor could smell the sharp alcohol on Dorian’s breath, and it was the rough fuzz against his pair upper lip that alerted him to just who had decided to appear in his room so late. Drunken, sloppy kisses were not something strange between the two men. There had been many nights where the bar had left Dorian pinning him on the bed and taking him in a way far less romantic than the other nights they shared—after saving Celene and Briala, two nights after the collapsed into the rift together, and after a certain letter from Dorian’s father left him shaken.  
  
So it was really no shock that he leant into the kiss and furiously returned the favor, his hand rising to tug at one of ridiculously difficult to undo ties on the other mans clothing.  
  
Whatever returning the affection meant to Dorian, it made him pull back abruptly, stepping away from the chair with a stumble. Lúthian became aware of the bottle clutched in his hand, and the hurt twist of the other mans lift. His head spun, however, and he gripped the chairs to steady himself, blinking the sleep out of his eyes even as the Tevinter turned away, steadying himself on the arch of the inquisitor’s bed frame.  
  
“Fuck you—“ Dorian’s voice was quiet, angry, not at all his usual witty self.  
  
“That’s rather uncalled for—“ Even as Lúthian spoke, he knew it was not the right thing to do. He knew that it was only bound to hurt someone. He _knew_ that it wasn’t okay, and he knew exactly what would come next.  
  
“ _Do you remember what you promised me?_ ”

Silence felt so heavy in the room. He reached for the glass on the table, and then stopped when he realized that it wasn’t filled. Empty. Maybe for the best. Licking his lips, which were rather sore at this point, Lúthian wasn’t entirely sure how to reply.  
  
“I’m—I didn’t—“  
  
“Is your tongue too bewildered by your celebrations or by my kiss to form words, my dear?” Dorian once again managed to shut up the inquisitor. Since coming here, the Tevinter had proven to be the one person that Lúthian became entirely tongue tied around. Before joining the inquisition, the elf had found himself rude, whiney, and even rather immature—but Dorian was not someone that had ever called up those traits in him, “Not that it matters, of course! You will have an abundance of words to choose from now, with your pretty head willed with the whisperings of a _God—“_  
  
“I’m still me—“ That came forth easy enough, but Lúthian knew the other man, in a way, was right. Even drunk, the whispers of his elven ancestors were there. At the back of his mind, they roared. At the back of his mind, they wanted his attention. They gave him something he never thought he would know, and even now he could have recited off a million ancient lost words that would leave even Solas bewildered.  
  
“How can I _know_ that?” Something about the other mans voice broke a little part of the inquisitor. He had never heard the other man choke. He had often wondered if Dorian was capable of such fragile emotions, “I tried to drink it away—in the darkness of my study, you know. Used to do that back home, when mother yelled, or when I got _that_ looked from my father—the one that meant he wanted to disown me, or worse—“  
  
Lúthian found himself rising to his feet, knowing that his face must have been shaken. His tattoos would be smudged—it had been Dorian that had told him to stop acting, to stop wearing them—he hadn’t listened—

“Didn’t work this time, though. Must be because of something silly. Perhaps because the drink isn’t strong enough. Perhaps because I care about you. Because I dared to _hope_. Love, you know? _Ridiculous_ concept—“ The dark haired man’s arms rose angrily, the bottle swinging and sloshing liquid across the otherwise unstained carpet, and his eyes sparked with a bitter righteousness that left the inquisitor frozen in spot, forced to just watch him.  
  
“Vhenan—“  
  
“ _Oh,_ don’t you _dare_.” Dorian’s voice finally cracked, and he pointed a pained, accusing finger at the inquisitor, who found himself unable to hide the sheer emotion on his features, “I rather wish I didn’t find your face so pretty, because I would like to smash this bottle across it—or at least go kill something—but instead I’m here. Looking at you and wondering if you’re still the _same._ I fear losing you, you _know_ that right? Maybe I was wrong in having hope when you said this,” Dorian gestured between the two of them aggressively, “was something _more—_ “  
  
“ _Will_ you let me speak?”  
  
He had always found himself unable to speak with much force around Dorian. It was likely the other mans utter confidence, even now, at his most vulnerable. The mage left him utterly tongue-tied, and for good reason—seeing as Lúthian knew he would have screwed up the relationship by now. Even drunk, Dorian was better with words than him, but even the Tevinter stopped talking at that. Lúthian could see it. How his hands shook, and his eyes watered as much as the other man tried to hide it, and just what the tight press of his lips said.  
  
“Corypheus is my duty,” The face in front of him began to fall, and a part of the inquisitors heart broke, but he forged on, “I was granted this anchor. Maybe not by the Maker. I find it hard to believe in such dull things—but maybe by… my Mythal, or maybe just by fate or sheer dumb luck—But—but, ugh—I find it very infuriating how much you doubt me.”  
  
That left Dorian looking rather stunned, an expression not often seen on the confident features, and more than likely due to the alcohol in his system. Lúthian continued, “I did not drink from the well to betray you. I drank from the well because I have been giving a calling, and I have a duty to fulfill it. It is unlikely that many will agree with my choice, including you—“ His voice threatened to crack, and the elf had to take a deep breath, “But without your support, I might just break.”  
  
“I’m not good with words. I’m not… anything special. I’m just an elf. A Levellan. But it doesn’t mean I love you less. I don’t stop being the inquisitor though, and in this case I needed to Well, to know what was right—“  
  
“She could have drank from him—“ His voice broke through for just a moment.  
  
“ _And she could have betrayed me_.”  
  
Maybe it was the force of the inquisitor’s voice, but Dorian finally stopped, stepping backwards and away from Lúthian, eyes peering past him onto the deck. Lúthian found himself stepping forward, and a rather unsteady hand grasped Dorian’s darker one.  
  
“I need to beside me for this, Dorian. I’m still me. I am. I promise. I fear I’m not—but—I have to believe—“ His voice cracked, and the stronger arms of the other man took the small bodied elf against his chest.  
  
“Yes. Yes, of course. I would never—I will always—I should not have been so accusing—“  
  
“You had the right.” Lúthian’s voice ended in an incredulous bark of a laugh, and his hand rose to grip the other mans neck, holding them both steady. Dorian’s one sigh was a long one.  
  
“Once again, I act irrationally—“

“I wish you would have more faith in how you feel, vhenan,” That left them both quiet, and only when Dorian went to sit, leading the elf along with him, did the inquisitor speak again.  
  
“I trust you, Dorian. But I need you to trust me.”  
  
“I… I do.”


End file.
